


You're an A+ Alpha, Derek Hale

by yodasyoyo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, Fluff, Found Family, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Humor, M/M, Pack Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-04-12 08:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19128637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: “Is that a dick?” Stiles cranes his neck, eyes narrowing as he squints up at the whiteboard that’s center stage in Derek’s loft. “Because it looks like a dick.”“It is not a dick.” Derek glares at him.“Are you sure?”





	1. Is that a dick?

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ты супер-альфа, Дерек Хейл](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19212403) by [FantikBantik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantikBantik/pseuds/FantikBantik)



> Series of individual ficlets that I'm importing from tumblr for safe-keeping, all set in the same 'verse, where Stiles and Derek are in an established relationship, Derek's the alpha and the whole pack is alive and well-- because NOBODY DIED. I'll put any necessary tags at the beginning of each individual chapter? Enjoy :D

“Is that a dick?” Stiles cranes his neck, eyes narrowing as he squints up at the whiteboard that’s center stage in Derek’s loft. “Because it looks like a dick.”

“It is  _not_  a dick.” Derek glares at him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Derek’s mouth is a tiny moue of disapproval.

“You know technically Derek’s not allowed to speak–” Lydia begins.

Stiles waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, but I don’t think that rule should apply to our team, Lyds. Not when Derek’s drawing–” He gestures in the direction of the board and sighs. “Are you sure that isn’t a dick?”

“It could be a weird mushroom,” says Scott.

“You’re not on their team,” Isaac hisses. “Stop helping them.”

“Yeah, Scott,” Erica adds. “Jesus. They won Monopoly last week. Derek’s complete inability to draw anything is our one advantage in Pictionary.”

“I can draw.” Derek glares round the room, eyes flickering red briefly, like he can alpha them into denying the evidence of their own eyes. “It isn’t my fault you all suck at guessing. I’m good at drawing.”

“Eh,” Stiles says, unmoved. “I mean– You’re good at drawing things that look like dicks. Remember the last time we played this? With the whole Prince Albert debacle.”

“That,” Derek says hotly, ears turning red, “was a sunset.”

“Was it though?” Stiles says wrinkling his nose. “Was it really?”

“It was a very tall hill,” Kira says loyally. “With the sun coming up from behind it.”

“Hmmm.”

“Time is running out,” Lydia hisses, gesturing that the little plastic sand timer. “So stop arguing and fucking guess–”

“Is it a person with a really thick neck?” Boyd asks, “And maybe a weird shaped head?”

As one the entire pack tilts their head to the side trying to make sense of what they’re seeing. “ _I-Is_  it that?” Erica says after a beat. “Because I could sorta see that.”

“It’s a dick,” Stiles mutters. “I’m telling you. It’s totally a dick.”

“No. It isn’t a dick.” Derek says jerkily as the last grain of sand falls through the timer. “It. Is. A. Fist.” He gestures abortively at the whiteboard. “It’s clearly a fist.”

“Ohhhhhhhh,” most of the pack say in unison, except Erica who’s rubbing her hands with glee. 

“Oh god,” Lydia says, tilting her head until it’s virtually horizontal. “A fist? Seriously? Somehow that’s worse. It's definitely worse.”

“Nah,” Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows at Derek. “Personally I’ve always been a fan of his big ol’ fist.”

Derek exhales through his nose. “I’m going to kill you.”

“No.” Stiles grins. “You love me. You love the way I can take your–”

“No!” Isaac says. “We agreed. We have rules. Pack game night rules. You guys signed a contract and everything. No explicit details of your sex life. It’s bad enough half of us have walked in on–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says airily. “Whatever,” he winks at Derek. “We’ll discuss the dickfist later.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles can tell he’s trying not to smile.


	2. Scaly Green Balls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags: threats made against Jackson's genitals, but not acted upon  
> baked goods gratuitously left to go to waste

Derek is just about to sit down, a half-eaten bear claw raised to his mouth ready to take the next bite, when the door to the loft slams open and Lydia storms in.  
  
He pauses, suspended in a half stand, half sit, not quite a squat, his bear claw gripped between his fingers as he stares at her. Lydia’s normally perfect hair is  wild, her eyes are flashing, her cheeks flushed.   
  
“That’s it,” she says, storming forward, and flinging a weighty looking tome onto the coffee table with a thud. “I’m learning magic. Stiles can teach me. Where is he? I need to start right now, because I am gonna hex Jackson’s scaly green balls right off.”  
  
Derek straightens up a little, drops the bear claw onto the coffee table next to the book. It can wait.   
  
He opens his mouth–  
  
“Wait, wait, wait!” Stiles calls, sticking his head around the door to the kitchen, eyes wide. “Jackson has scaly green balls? Really? Like, all the time? Or just when he’s full kanima? Because when Derek’s in beta shift his are so much–”  
  
Both Derek and Lydia turn as one to glare at Stiles and he trails off, wincing. “Too much information?” he says looking at Derek who gives him ‘you think?’ eyebrows. Then as his gaze passes over to Lydia Stiles throws his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and adds, “And also not the point. Gotcha. Ok. Message received and understood. Well, before we get to the hexing balls off portion of the evening, which I am fully behind by the way, why don’t I make us all some cocoa?”  
  
Lydia shoulder’s slump, and she sniffs. Some of the fight seems to leave her. “Tea,” she says eventually. “Earl Grey, with a slice of lemon.”  
  
“Right.” Stiles chances a glance at Derek who shrugs slightly. He has no idea if they have lemons either. Stiles’ll have to sort it out. He normally does.  
  
Once Stiles has left the room, Derek looks back at Lydia. She’s curled in on herself now, mouth turned down, shoulders hunched. Derek’s not the most natural Alpha, and he knows– _god does he know–_  that he’s not the best with feelings, but he did grow up with sisters.  
  
Slowly he steps forward and lifts his arms, just a little in invitation.  
  
Lydia falls into him like she’s been propelled by gravity, and nestles her head in the crook of his shoulder as his arms close around her. Her hairs smells like coconut; coconut and pack. Something in his chest settles. “I know he’s yours too,” she says. “I know he is. But he’s such a dick sometimes.”  
  
“I know,” Derek says patting her back gently.   
  
“He’s a dick, and I love him so much.”  
  
“I know that too.”  
  
Stiles reappears from the kitchen carrying three mugs of tea on a tray. He pauses in the doorway when he catches sight of them, and  something in his gaze softens; he hesitates. When Derek nods at him, he starts forward again. Placing the tray on the coffee table next to the magic book and the half eaten bear claw he comes over to them and hugs Lydia so she’s sandwiched between the two of them. Something in her scent settles, the astringent notes of anger and anxiety fade a little.  
  
“I can hex Jackson’s balls off if you want,” Stiles mutters, pressing a kiss into her hair.  
  
“Sti-les,” she says.  
  
“Or Derek could bite them off.”  
  
Lydia snorts, wetly. It sounds like it might almost be a laugh.   
  
“I am not putting my mouth anywhere near Jackson’s scaly green balls,” Derek says, firmly.   
  
She does laugh this time, clinging on to him tighter. “Thanks, guys,” she says. “Thanks. But I don’t need you guys to fight my battles for me. I just– I just needed this.”


	3. You, And Everything About You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags: crossdressing, deputy!derek,

Derek hears them as he slides open the door to the loft that evening. Hears the muffled thud of footsteps coming from the floor above, a snort of laughter from Erica, and then Stiles’ voice, a lot quieter, sure, but that doesn’t matter. Derek sometimes thinks he would be able to pick out Stiles’ voice standing in Grand Central Station at rush hour with his fingers in his ears.   
  
“Holy shit,” he hears Stiles say, voice pitched low. “Holy fucking shit.”  
  
Derek almost doesn’t wanna know. The swing shift at the Sheriff’s station had been long today. Not bad. Not brutal in the way the job can be sometimes. Instead it was filled with paperwork and that kind of unproductive busyness where lots is done, but nothing is achieved. All Derek wants to do now is curl up on the couch with Stiles under his arm, and eat his dinner while they watch Netflix in peace.  
  
Looks like that’s not on the cards.  
  
He kicks off his shoes, and undoes the top button on his deputy uniform. The starched collars are the worst. Stiff and scratchy against his skin. Above him he hears a loud thud, like someone’s fallen over, a shriek of hysterical laughter (Erica), and a muttered curse (Stiles).   
  
Rolling his shoulders Derek heads into the kitchen and opens the door to the refrigerator to see what there is to eat.  
  
He’s cradling a mug of tea in his hands while the microwave heats lasagna left over from yesterday, when he hears the  _tap tap tap_ of heels against the spiral staircase. It takes him a moment to realize why the sound gives him pause. It’s the noise from two sets of heels. Two people in heels. But he could have sworn it was only Stiles and Erica here.  
  
A second later someone behind him clears their throat, and Derek looks back to see Erica leaning against the doorjamb, hip cocked, arms folded. She looks pretty damn pleased with herself.  
  
“Oh god,” Derek says. “What now.”  
  
“Fine way to greet your favorite beta.”  
  
“I don’t have a favorite beta.”  
  
“Yes you do. Boyd.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Kira.”  
  
“I promise you, you’re all equally annoying.”  
  
“Har har. I’m almost tempted not to introduce you now.”  
  
“Introduce me?” Derek’s nostrils flare. He can’t pick out the scent of anyone who isn’t supposed to be there. “Introduce me to who?”  
  
“Ms. Demeanor.”   
  
“ _Who?_ ”  
  
Her grin stretches wide, almost shark like, and she steps to one side to let– oh god.   
  
Derek’s brain just kinda sorta stutters to a halt and shuts down.  
  
It’s Stiles.   
  
Obviously it’s Stiles.   
  
Stiles who takes a faltering step into the kitchen, wearing a bright red, satin, sheath dress that clings to the angles of his body. The material shimmers under the stark kitchen light; the red looks somehow obscene against the paleness of his mole-speckled skin. It isn’t just the dress though. He’s wearing a dark wig immaculately styled, his mouth is a gash of scarlet, his bright brown eyes rimmed with kohl so they look even bigger than usual. Derek’s gaze sweeps downwards, taking it in. Oh god, the heels— _the heels_ – Derek swallows.   
  
Behind Derek the microwave beeps long and loud, and he fumbles his mug in surprise, only just manages to catch it. Blindly he gropes behind him and places it on the counter, where it’ll be safe.  
  
“It’s karaoke night at The Jungle tomorrow,” Stiles says sheepishly, as Derek blinks at him. “And y’know Honey and the other queens are always telling me to— and they lent me this wig, and I thought. I thought I might, y’know, practice– Erica said she would come over and help with the make up, and–” He glances back to Erica uncertainly.   
  
“I think you broke him,” she says in a stage whisper.  
  
“In a good way?”  
  
“Oh yeah,” she nods. “In fact I probably need to leave now, because it smells like he’s two seconds away from bending you over the counter and–”  
  
“Erica!” Derek growls, annoyed, because yeah– in someways she’s right, but in others, she couldn’t be more wrong. He reaches back, grabs the kitchen counter in a white knuckle grip, and takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying to settle himself. The thing is, he learned a long time ago that there’s no version of Stiles he doesn’t find irritatingly attractive. Stiles is his major kink, whether he’s rocking a tux or wearing a three day old graphic tee and grody jeans. But still.  _Still._  He hadn’t realized  _this_  would be a thing. He averts his gaze from Stiles briefly to shoot Erica a glare, eyes flickering red briefly.  
  
Erica holds her hands up. “Sorry! Sorry. My bad. Bet I’m your favorite beta now, though.” She pauses for effect. “Or I will be, once you get a look at the lingerie.”  
  
There’s an awful splintering sound as the kitchen counter gives way underneath Derek’s grip; a tentative smile blooms on Stiles’ face.  
  
“Going now!” Erica sing songs and she turns on heel. “Enjoy!” A few seconds  later the door to the loft slams shut behind her.  
  
For a long beat neither he nor Stiles says anything.  
  
“So– you like it then?” Stiles says hesitantly.  
  
“Yeah,” Derek says. “Yeah. I do. You look, really, uh.”  
  
“Cool. That’s cool. I mean.” He tilts his head, one eye scrunched shut as he levels a considering look at Derek. His lips are parted. He has lipstick on his teeth and Derek wants to lick it off. “If you do wanna–” Stiles makes a vague gesture. “–I would totally be up for that, but uh–I keep falling over in these heels, nearly killed myself getting down the stairs, so you might wanna–”  
  
Derek doesn’t need to be told twice. He crosses the kitchen in two quick strides, and a second later he sweeps Stiles up into his arms.  
  
“Why, thank-you, Deputy,” Stiles says, affecting a southern drawl and batting his fake eye lashes. “What big muscles you have.”  
  
Derek looks down at him helplessly. He loves him so damn much. “I want you to fuck me,” he blurts. “Please.”  
  
“Oh,” Stiles says in his regular voice, staring up at Derek, mouth a perfectly painted crimson circle. “I mean. Yeah. Ok. We can do that. We can do whatever you want. Whatever you need.”  
  
“Thanks,” Derek says, even though the word feels too small to fit all the things he means into it. There’s a whole laundry list of stuff that he’ll never be able to articulate, because it’s all too fundamental, too important. But this– this hard fought for freedom that exists between them now, to be exactly who they are with each other–it’s a big part of it. Looking down at Stiles, he knows Stiles feels it too. “Thanks,” he says again.  
  
Stiles’ answering smile is soft. “No problem,” he says, and  leaning up he kisses Derek’s cheek. 


	4. The Old Familiar Ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Grieving, mentions death of a child,

  
The feeling’s there in the morning when Derek wakes; tension in his stomach, taut like a rubber band stretched almost to breaking point. It’s his day off, he should be relaxing, he should still be asleep. Instead he’s rubbing the goop from his eyes, blinking in the half light of early morning and wondering what's going on.  
  
Next to him, Stiles is curled almost fetal. It’s a counter-intuitive Stilesean quirk that Derek’s always surprised by when he lets himself think about it. Stiles seems like the sort of person who would starfish out on the bed, or be a messy tangle of limbs. He takes up so much of the world when he’s awake— or so much of Derek’s world at least— that it always seems strange for him to be so small in sleep.  
  
Whatever the root of this tension is, though, for once  it isn’t Stiles, and Derek takes a moment to press a soft kiss to his shoulder. Stiles snuffles a little, but otherwise remains sound asleep.  With a sigh, Derek slides out of bed, pads into the kitchen and makes himself coffee, then wanders over to the window that dominates the space in the living room and blinks out at the early morning sun as it creeps over the horizon, spreading a warm golden glow over the rooftops of Beacon Hills.  
  
That tense feeling is still there, and as his eyes flutter shutter he lets himself navigate it the shape of it. Sadness. Self-loathing. Regret. Loneliness.  
  
And above all, grief.  
  
All familiar, and yet. This isn’t coming from him.  
  
They aren’t his feelings.  
  
It’s bleeding in from somewhere else. Someone else.  
  
Deep through the pack bond.   
  
He blows out a sigh, shoulder sagging.  
  
No one told him about this shit, that’s the thing.  
  
No one sat him down and explained it.  
  
Sure, he’s been a wolf his whole life, but being an Alpha is a whole ‘nother thing. If anyone was being groomed to take over that role from his mom, it was Laura, not him. Now both of them are long gone, and he has no one to ask about this feeling that scrapes at his insides like fingernails across a chalkboard. Now he’s running almost entirely on instinct, and hoping to god that he doesn’t fuck up.  
  
Stiles would be the first to tell him he has a 50/50 success rate with that.  
  
It’s never stopped Derek from trying though.  
  
Even in the worst of times, years back, when Laura first died, and Scott hated him, and Peter was wandering around murdering people. Derek had still tried.  
  
He hadn’t been nice about it, but--  
  
_Eh, nice is overrated_ , he can almost hear Stiles say.  _Good is more important._  
  
Good  _is_  more important, Derek thinks to himself, but he's been known to occasionally manage nice now. Quickly he downs the rest of his coffee, rinses the mug and then goes to get dressed.  
  
-  
  
When Derek finally walks out the door to the building a half hour later, he takes a moment to breathe in the fresh morning air. Stands a moment, rolling his shoulders, eyes drifting shut.  
  
Normally if he’s awake this early on his day off he goes for a run. The feeling doesn’t sit right with him now though, and instead he’s dressed in his jeans and a henley.  
  
That feeling, tension, grief— whatever it is— it’s still there, resonating through him. If it were closer to the full moon he’d be resisting the urge to whine. As it is he grits his teeth, crosses the street to where the Camaro is parked and gets inside.  
  
It’s a little over twenty minutes later when he pulls in at the Beacon Hills cemetery.  
  
If anyone was to ask him why he’s there, he wouldn’t be able to tell them, just that it felt right in some indefinable way.  
  
He switches the engine off, gets out and stands there a moment. He doesn’t come here a lot, maybe once a year on the anniversary of the fire, and that’s months away.  
  
Overhead the sky is a startling, cloudless blue. The only noise comes from the birds  who trill sweetly in the distance. Closing his eyes, he inhales deeply, takes in the scent of rich earth, fresh cut grass and—  
  
His eyes fly open, and now he knows why he’s here.  
  
It takes him just a few minutes to find Boyd. He’s sitting under a tree a little ways off, his back to Derek. He doesn’t look up as Derek’s approaches.  
  
The closer Derek gets, the more he feels it— that old ache. The pain of grief, like an old injury that only flares up in bitter winter.  
  
As his gaze darts about his eyes find a headstone.  
  
_Alicia Boyd, Age 8, Much loved daughter and sister._  
  
Now he understands.  
  
“Hey,” Derek says, after a beat.  
  
“Hey.” Boyd doesn’t look up from where he’s sitting, back against the tree. Eyes staring blindly into the distance. Eventually he says,  “She woulda been seventeen today."  
  
“I’m sorry.” It’s inadequate, and Derek knows it is- but it also has the benefit of being true. “I-I can go if you want,” he offers.  
  
Slowly Boyd looks up, still not meeting Derek's eyes. His eyes are red, cheeks damp. “No,” he says. “It’s ok. I—” He swallows. “I thought I wanted to be by myself, but—” Finally his gaze darts to Derek and then away, quickly. “Maybe I wanna be with someone who understands.”  
  
With a nod, Derek closes the distance between them and sinks down onto grass still wet with dew. Boyd isn't his most tactile beta, but as Derek joins him he leans in, knocking their shoulders together.  
  
“You wanna tell me about her?” Derek asks, after a beat.  
  
Boyd takes a deep breath in through his nose. “Maybe. Maybe I just want to not be alone while I remember her.”  
  
“I can help with that,” Derek says. 


	5. Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags: hurt derek, hurt/comfort, stiles takes care of derek, description of injury

“I cannot believe you.” Stiles stomps past him heading through to the kitchen, and Derek sinks gingerly onto the edge of the nearest armchair; moments later Derek can hear Stiles throwing open a cupboard door and muttering to himself about ‘idiot werewolves who think they’re invulnerable.’  
  
With a wince, Derek curls in on himself, arms cradling his stomach protectively. He can still feel blood oozing lazily from the wide gash that’s there, not to mention the fact that his head is pounding– apparently harpy talons contain venom, or something. Stiles will probably explain it later. And by explain, Derek means lecture. Loudly. And at length.  
  
A few seconds later Stiles appears in the doorway to the kitchen with their first aid kit clutched in his hands. “I don’t know what you thought you were doing.”  
  
“Saving your life,” Derek grits out.  
  
“I had body armor on!” Stiles taps the kevlar that’s under the plaid shirt, making it look bulkier than usual. “Plus– as I  _think_ I mentioned in the pre-confronting the harpies briefing– harpy venom inhibits–”  
  
“–Werewolf healing.” It’s all coming back. Not that Derek ever really forgot.

“If you remembered that,” Stiles snaps, marching over and placing the First Aid Kit on the coffee table with unnecessary force. “–Then why throw yourself in front of me like a–”  
  
“Because–”  
  
“You could have been killed, Derek.”  
  
Derek grits his teeth, consciousness feels like it’s trickling through his fingers. He blinks up at Stiles. “I–”  
  
“Killed!” Stiles’ voice is hoarse as he kneels down in front of Derek. With hesitant hands he starts to peel back Derek’s blood-soaked t-shirt, where it’s sticking to the skin and the ragged wound. And Derek finds he can’t reply, partly because he’s too weak from the pain, and partly because there’s nothing to say. That same panic Stiles is feeling now– that sick rush of dread and anxiety, is exactly what Derek felt when he’d watched the harpy queen lunge at Stiles earlier, talons extended.  
  
In that moment, Derek hadn’t been thinking about the pre-battle briefing, or about the effects of venom on his own healing. No, he'd been sick with the sudden idea that Stiles’ body armor might not hold. That Stiles might not make it. Knocking Stiles out the way and taking the hit had been instinctive. So he can’t say anything- can’t say he wouldn’t do it again, because he would always do it again. Every single goddamn time.  
  
Alpha instincts.  
  
Or maybe it’s a mate thing.  
  
Probably some unholy combination of the two.  
  
He hisses in pain as the t-shirt finally lifts, pulling at the raw skin as it does. Stiles’ mouth is small and unhappy, and there’s a little crinkle between his eyebrows. “This is really gonna sting,” he says, gesturing to a little tub of something that is labelled ‘anti-venom.’  
  
“S’ok,” Derek says.  
  
“Nothing about this is ok,” Stiles sighs. “Our lives are completely fucked up.” He pulls on a pair of disposable gloves from the first aid kid, and unscrews the lid of the anti-venom. The stuff stinks to high heaven and they both recoil. With a grim expression Stiles scoops some of the stuff up with his gloved fingers. It’s roughly the consistency of Vaseline, but grainier.  “I’m sorry,” he says, and then starts to rub it in.  
  
Obviously he’s trying to be gentle, but it doesn’t make much difference. The stuff burns, and Derek takes in a hissing breath between his teeth.   
  
“I hate this,” Stiles says. “I hate that you did this. I thought we were past this.”  
  
“Past what?” Derek manages.  
  
Glancing up, Stiles meets his eye. “Past you sacrificing yourself like your life doesn’t mean anything.” His gaze skitters away, back to the job at hand, and for the next minute or so he works in silence as Derek tries to hold himself still, focusing on his breathing, on Stiles’ scent, anything to try and distract from the pain.  
  
Eventually, the area around the gash starts to feel strangely numb, and an itching sensation starts under Derek’s skin that he associates with healing. He feels weak, sure, but it’s working. The anti-venom is working. Without another word he slumps forward and lets his forehead rest on the crook of Stiles shoulder.  
  
“I can’t–” Stiles says. “I can’t put the stuff on if you're like this.”  
  
“S’fine,” Derek mumbles. “S’working. C’n feel it. I’m healin’” The pounding in his head is down to a dull roar. He’s gonna be ok.  
  
Stiles’ shoulders drop in relief, then there’s a slight rocking motion as he takes the gloves off and balls them up. Immediately that’s done, his arms come up around Derek and he holds on tight.  
  
“If you died because of me, I would never be ok again,” he says fiercely. “You have to understand that.”  
  
“If you died and I could’ve prevented it,  _I_  would never be ok.” Derek slurs. “Checkmate.”  
  
“But–”  
  
“It wasn’t about me sacrificin’ myself for no reason, ‘k?” With an effort, Derek reaches up and cups the back of Stiles head, holding him closer. “You are the reason. You’re the best reason, the only reason and–” He swallows. “I know that if things had been the other way around– you woulda done the same. In a heartbeat.”  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles says eventually, voice coming soft, but sure. “Yeah, I would.”  
  
“Well then.” Derek rubs his scruff along the line of Stiles’ neck and kisses the curve of his jaw. “That’s settled. Help me to bed?”  
  
Stiles arms tighten around him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, of course.”


	6. Oh, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for WillowOdair who prompted-- well, they prompted many amazing things, but one of them was pack baby. So this is the pack waiting at the hospital for Erica to give birth. Hope you like it!

“Ugh,” Stiles says, slouching right down in his seat, legs stuck out in front of him in an untidy sprawl, his head resting against the back of the stupidly uncomfortable, low-backed, hospital waiting room chair. “Monica was right. The miracle of birth sure is a snooze fest. Erica and Boyd’s baby better be really fucking cool.”

“Phoebe,” Derek says, turning the page of the magazine he’s reading; apparently asparagus is an aphrodisiac, who knew?

“Wha—?”

“Phoebe.” Derek says without looking up. “Phoebe was the one who said the miracle of birth was a snooze fest.”

“Hmmm.” Out the corner of his eye he sees Stiles cut him a look. “You wanna bet?”

“Why?” Finally Derek looks up. “You wanna lose?”

“Confident, aren’t you? Ok. Fine.”

“Our usual terms?”

“Absolutely.” Scrambling to sit up, Stiles fishes around in the pocket of his jeans for his cell phone.

“What are your usual terms?” Kira asks, leaning forward in her seat.

“Don’t ask—” says Isaac immediately, but he’s too late.

“Winner bangs the loser,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Or loser bangs the winner. Whatever. Winners choice.”

“Nice,” Kira says, and high fives him. 

“It’s a good system,” Stiles says, “because basically it means whatever the argument, there are no losers.”

Isaac scrubs a palm over his face and sighs. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “When I walked in on the two of you after Derek lost the ‘is the Great Wall of China visible from space’ debate, it definitely felt like  _ I  _ was the loser.”

Ah. Yeah. That had been good night, actually. Derek stretches like a cat just thinking about it and grins smugly.

Without looking up from his phone, Stiles leans over and flicks Isaac on the forehead, then scowls. “Shit. It was Phoebe. Well fuck me.”

“I thought we agreed the winner got to choose?” Derek says, arching an eyebrow.

Stiles flashes him a shit-eating grin. “Ok. Fuck you then.”

“That’s it!” Isaac says, abruptly getting out of his chair. “You two are being all gross and adorable. I’m gonna go get food.”

“In the last hour you already ate snickers, rice crispy treats and cheetos,” Derek points out.

“So I get snacky when I’m bored. Besides, I’m gonna go healthy this time,” Isaac says. “Milk duds.” When everyone stares at him for a moment he says, “What? Milk is healthy!”

“Wow,” Stiles says. “Just. Wow.”

“Ugh. Whatever.” Isaac stalks off down the hallway in the direction of the vending machine.

“So are you gonna bang now, or bang later?” Kira asks, after a beat.

Derek opens his mouth— but Stiles cuts in. “That’s up to Derek.”

“And the answer is— none of your business,” says Derek.

“That means later,” Stiles says in a stage whisper.

At that moment a door bursts open and Scott and Lydia tumble through. Lydia’s normally perfect hair is frizzy, her face flushed, mouth curled in a grimace.

“There you all are,” she snaps. “Traffic was bad, parking was a nightmare and then Scott-” She gestures at Scott.

He seems to be carrying approximately nineteen balloons, a giant wolf plushie, and a basket of mini-muffins staggers over to them. “Sorry we’re late!” His voice calls from somewhere behind the mounds of stuff. “Has Erica had the baby? Did we miss anything?”

“Nope,” Derek says.

“The only thing you missed was Derek losing a bet to Stiles. Oh, and Isaac thinks milk duds are a health food,” Kira chimes in. “But other than that, nothing.”

“Don’t screw each other in the janitor’s closet,” Lydia says, raising a finger threateningly and jabbing it first at Stiles and then at Derek. “It’s tacky to fuck in a hospital.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Stiles says, lifting his hands in supplication. 

“Pff,” Lydia marches over to them and takes Isaac’s old seat, then pulls a compact out of her purse and examines her face and hair with a critical eye. “You mean Derek wasn’t gonna, so you’re not gonna get to.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says patiently. “Well. Same difference. How come you guys took so long?”

“Had to stop and get gifts,” Scott says. He’s currently struggling to arrange the muffin basket, plushie and balloons in one of the chairs, and failing miserably. 

“Yeah,” Lydia echoes sourly. “Had to. We  _ had _ to spend a half hour agonizing over which plushie to get, and then  buy one of every kind of balloon from the gift shop.”

“I couldn’t decide which one they would like best! Because the one with the bunny was cool, but then the one with the kitten was so cute— and then I realized that Boyd likes Pokemon and they had a—”

“We get the idea, bud,” Stiles says, batting a couple of balloons out the way.

“Hey, you stole my seat,” Isaac says, appearing out of nowhere, and cramming a fist full of milk duds into him mouth. “Move.” 

To be fair to Isaac he’s busy looking at the box of candy, and Derek doesn’t think he’s realizes who he’s said that to. 

Lydia clears her throat, and immediately Isaac’s head snaps up; he pales.

“Excuse me?” she says, raising one eyebrow. 

Isaac gulps. “I can stand,” he says, although it comes out thick and gummy around the half-chewed candy. He shuffles over to Derek, probably for protection— like Derek would be able to do anything against Lydia in a snit.

“I’m going to text Jackson and let him know what’s going on,” she says frostily.

“I’m bored. Let’s play mad-libs,” Stiles suggests a few seconds later.

“No,” choruses everyone except Kira.

“I-spy?” he says.

“Definitely not.”

“Hide-and-go-seek?”

“What are you? Eight?” Lydia says, just as Derek says, “In a hospital?”

“But I’m booooored,” he whines. “When is Erica gonna be—”

A door behind them is thrown open and Boyd bursts through it dressed in green scrubs, his eyes are wild, and his smile is huge. The whole pack turns to look at him expectantly. Derek can feel himself holding his breath.

“It’s a girl!” he crows, punching the air with his fist.

Everyone gets to their feet whooping and cheering, but Derek’s quickest to cross the room and pull Boyd into a big bear hug. “Congratulations,” he murmurs, as the rest of the pack crowd around them. Derek can feel their joy, pride and happiness zinging through the pack bond bright and jubilant, and, new and unfamiliar, but still there, a new thread, that's already calling to him, humming sweet and high. It's her. He knows it is, and his heart sings.

“Thanks, man.” Boyd pulls back a little, eyes shining. “Come on, you all have to come and meet her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who leaves comments and kudos! You guys are the best :D
> 
> Edited because I spelt it Eye-Spy instead of I-Spy. WTF, brain???? 😂😂😂

**Author's Note:**

> If you comment or leave kudos then you are OFFICIALLY the best. 
> 
> I've written three of these in three days? So I'm uploading them here, because I think this is the kind of thing where I'll just keep writing little individual scenes when I feel inspired?? And then uploading them?? So I'm marking it as complete, but it's basically perpetually ongoing.
> 
> To that end-- if you want to prompt me for a scene in this verse, then leave a comment or hit me up on tumblr, and if I think I can make it fit, I will :D


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